Pointed Questions
by lingering nomad
Summary: One night, in Skyhold's tavern, an unsuspecting Dorian finds himself confronted with an inconvenient truth.


**Topography:** "spoken dialogue," "_flashback dialogue_," '_thoughts_,' _emphasis_

**A/N:** Quick little fic dedicated to bullschargers and taranoire.

***WARNING:* **This fic features red!Hawke taking a very confrontational stance on slavery in Tevinter. If you did not romance Fenris in DA2, did not like red!Hawke, and/or if Dorian is your fave and you absolutely cannot handle seeing him in a situation that is less than sympathetic, **CLOSE THE BROWSER NOW. YOU WILL NOT ENJOY THIS STORY. READ ON AT OWN RISK. FLAMES, THREATS AND DISPUTES ON SUBJECTIVE ASPECTS OF CHARACTERISATION WILL BE IGNORED.** If anyone is interested in the reasoning behind this fic, feel free to read the comments on my AO3 posting. For some real world comparisons, drop me a message and I'll send on the links to a couple of meta posts I did on tumblr. That is all. If you're still here, happy reading ;) If you're rereading this fic and find yourself doing a double-take at m!Tre's name, that's because it has in fact changed. I'll spare y'all my list of nit-picky reasons for this, except to say that the character has evolved somewhat and I think this suits him better. It's a slight change, though, so hopefully it's not too jarring.

~Pointed Questions~

"...not by me personally, as I've said, but those owned by my family _are_ treated quite well—"

The thunk of a dagger sinking deep into the freshly lacquered bar top of the Herald's Rest tavern cut short whatever serah Pavus had intended to add. It wasn't the sound so much as the vehemence behind it that rippled like a foreboding knell through the room, causing even the minstrel to falter. Lysander – Inquisitor Trevelyan to most of the assembled – glanced up, finding the slate-grey gaze of Thedas' most notorious apostate boring sharp and cold into the necromancer seated beside him.

"Treated well, you say?" Hawke questioned. His tone was calm, but there was no mistaking the storm roiling beneath the temperate veneer. Lysander felt the change in Dorian's demeanour; felt the hardening of muscle and the shift in his posture as he strove to conceal his unease. The Tevinter ignored it well enough most days, but Dorian had declared himself an intelligent man and in this, Lysander did not suspect him of exaggerating. In the wake of what had transpired at Haven, there was no denying that a hatred of the Imperium and those who ruled it remained the sole unifying dogma among the vying factions of Thedas.

It was a loathing surpassed only by their collective fear. And Hawke gave every impression of fearing nothing at all.

"Yes. I believe they are," Dorian braved.

The corner of Hawke's lips tilted up at this. A smile supposedly, yet Lysander had rarely seen an expression that carried more scorn.

"So none of them have ever tried to run?"

Lysander scowled, suspicious of the Fereldan's motives. What could he possibly hope to accomplish with this line of inquiry? Ostensibly, Varric had coaxed his old friend out of hiding with the promise of clemency for his mutiny in Kirkwall in exchange for aiding the Inquisition's war effort against Corypheus. There were days, however, when Lysander wondered if interrogating darkspawn might not prove less contentious. A renegade to the core, the man had no regard for rank, needling, second-guessing and outright disputing every decision the Inquisitor made. And none more so than offering asylum to a self-confessed Imperial defector.

The thought had barely crystallised when Lysander noted the silence that had descended upon the room; the expectant stares directed their way, and resentment lodged like a stone in his throat. Conferring the titles of 'Andraste's Herald' and 'Inquisitor' upon a male and a mage was controversial already. By reminding those in the tavern, including many a pilgrim and templar, of the impetus behind Andraste's original march upon the Imperium, Hawke could lay waste to Lysander's credibility without pointing so much as a finger in his direction. As Herald and Inquisitor, he could not withdraw the protection he'd extended to a Tevinter Altus without appearing fickle, nor could he defend it before the present audience without sowing seeds of doubt. As thick as Alamarri savagery yet pulsed in Hawke's veins, Lysander had to concede that the man would make a formidable contender in the Grand Game of Orlais.

"Slaves who serve the household well are given the option to barter for their freedom," Dorian replied. "There is no need for them to run."

"Fascinating, yet that is not what I asked you, messere," Hawke rebutted, that barbed smile still twisting his lips. "My question was whether any have _tried_."

Dorian heaved a breath, exasperated. "Slaves are creatures of whim. There will always be those who choose rebellion, no matter how senseless."

Hawke's chin dipped, causing the black curtain of his hair to draw forward. He chuckled, a sound like the grinding of stones. "Touché," he said, though when he looked up to meet Dorian's gaze, the smile was gone. "And how precisely is such rebellion…_discouraged _among your family's chattel?"

"In Tevinter we are all subject to the law, serah Hawke. Slaves who break the tenets of society must face the consequences, as must anyone."

The Fereldan's expression, already shuttered, hardened to granite at that. "Are they literate?"

Dorian blinked, "What?"

"The slaves owned by House Pavus," Hawke said, leaning closer. "Are. They. Literate?"

"I—" Dorian faltered. "I don't know," he tried to circumvent, but the lie was thick in his voice.

Hawke arched a brow. "You don't know?" he echoed. "Did you ever see them with quills and parchment in hand, jotting down notes as the mistress of the house issued orders for the day? Did they have access to books? Perhaps a text detailing the Magisterium's laws applicable to them? Or maybe a few volumes of Imperial propaganda, not at all likely to make them think, or question, or – Maker forbid – _hope?_ By the Herald!" the Fereldan mocked, challenge and disgust vying for control of his tone, "let me make it simple for you, shall I: did you, even once, in the thirty-odd years you lived in Minrathous, see so much as _one_ of your family's 'well-treated' slaves look upon the written word with comprehension rather than _fear?!"_

The last word was pressed between gritted teeth as the dagger jerked free of the wood and Lysander felt Dorian flinch beside him. Hawke, for his part, was like a Mabari with its jaws locked upon a hare and he was not yet done with his mangling. "And I suppose it's '_an honour_' to be called to the master's chamber, is it? One no slave would _ever_ dream of refusing!"

"My—" Dorian's throat clicked as he swallowed. "My father doesn't lie with slaves." spoken hoarsely and Lysander's lips thinned upon hearing the doubt billowing beneath the denial. His own reputation was riding on Dorian's ability to deflect these questions. The Tevinter had held his own well enough when Lysander himself acted as interrogator, but then, remarking on the welfare benefits of enslaving the poor and the consensual use of blood for casting would win him no allies among the gathered.

"Did _you?_"

Two words, like drops of serpent's venom, and the Inquisitor concealed a sigh of relief as Dorian's affronted "No!" curbed a measure of their poisonous sting.

Hawke scoffed, rising from his seat. He was a big man: broad-shouldered, thickly-muscled and imposing of stature. Dorian could not be called slight by any means, but there was no denying that his sleek, highborn musculature was honed for aesthetics rather than strain. Varric's biography claimed that the Champion's rise to infamy had begun as a smuggler and sell-sword. It would not surprise the Inquisitor in the least to learn that he'd fallen back on those same 'occupations' to sustain himself and his adherents in the years since the most spectacular topple from grace in living memory.

More pressing, however, was the fact that Hawke was also a powerful mage, well-versed in doing battle against his own. He was even rumoured to have mastered the templars' skill of disrupting another mage's casting through an act of will and while Lysander laboured under no false sense of modesty regarding the potency of his own abilities, the legend of the Champion was one even _he _was reluctant to test.

Hawke's gauntleted hand came down on the counter as he leaned in close, lips a hand's-breadth from Dorian's ear. "I believe you," he said, voice low, "which is why your blood remains inside your veins this night. But know this, _magister_," he hissed, deliberately misusing the title, the rancour in his voice turning a term of Imperial prestige into the lowliest of slurs, "_I_ once cradled an adder to my breast. The price was borne by my city and by those I hold most dear. Do not think I will stay my hand for so much as a _second_ if I find cause to believe that the man who shapes the fate of Thedas itself is guilty of the same!"

He rose to his full height, gaze boring like spines of ice into Lysander's hazel. Once satisfied that his warning had been conveyed, he turned in a rustle of leather and steel and stalked toward the door. The heavy oak groaned once as it opened; again as it swung closed in the Fereldan's wake.

A pointed glower from Lysander saw the minstrel's song resumed and with it, the general bustle of the tavern.

"That could have gone worse, I suppose," he muttered under his breath as he turned back to Dorian. The necromancer nodded. His gaze, however, remained fixed upon the bar, slanted toward the deep scar Hawke's dagger had left within the wood.

When he glanced up, his patented smile shaped his lips, but his eyes remained troubled. "I think it is time I bade you good night, Inquisitor." He rose from his seat with his usual grace, hand clamping down on Lysander's shoulder. "Today has been…Well, '_eventful' _summarises it nicely, I think. And I believe some respite would be in both our interests."

**End A/N: **So at the end there, I might have pictured Hawke turning around at the door and going "Wreath Hawke" in his best Boston Legal voice. It's very late. Ignore me.


End file.
